


Lean On Me

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Teen John, Teen Sherlock, friends are good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes to Sherlock's aid.  As he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lean On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I was just not ready to say farewell to these boys.

Lean on me when you’re  
not strong. I’ll be your  
friend, I’ll help you carry on.  
-Michael Bolton

A Sequel to Duets For One

It had been days since he’d had a text from Sherlock and that was unprecedented. Normally, as far as anything having to do with Sherlock was normal, he could count on up to three-dozen texts in a day. Actual calls were much more rare and practically always initiated by John himself. “I prefer to text,” was Sherlock’s standard line.

But there had been nothing for three very long, dull days.

Of course, John had called. Or tried to call. All he got was the snippy greeting on Sherlock’s voice mail and he stopped leaving messages after the tenth.

This sudden silence was not totally unexpected, of course. Ever since the night they’d first met in Hyde Park, after John had run away from yet another beating at the hands of his drunken father, a part of him had been expecting Sherlock Holmes to realise that he had no reason to keep hanging out with an ordinary, boring boy like John Watson.

Apparently it didn’t matter that the four times he’d been summoned up to London [JOHN, I NEED YOU. SH] John had proven to be of some help in whatever experiment Sherlock was working on. The idiot might even have ended up with a broken bone or two recently, after an apparent shoplifter took offense at being followed from Selfridges, had not John stepped in.

Admittedly, John was still not quite sure what nabbing a shoplifter had to do with any scientific experiment, but never mind. No matter how strange the Spiny Orb Whatevers might have seemed at the time, that episode had proved to be only the beginning.

And John loved every minute of it.

But apparently he had outlived his usefulness. John tried to be angry about it, but all he really felt was a painful emptiness.

John was chatting with the cute girl, Mary, who lived next door to his aunt, when his phone signaled a new text arriving. Probably he reached for the phone a little too quickly.

JOHN I NEED YOU. MEET ME @ VICTORIA @ NOON. SH

That was it. As usual, no explanation about why his presence was so urgently required. And certainly no apology for being out of touch for three bloody days.

Arrogant prat.

Mary was smiling at him and John thought that maybe he should take her up on the suggestion of a walk to the beach and maybe grabbing some lunch later. Why not? Sherlock had coped very nicely on his own for three days and it would serve him right to be the one ignored for a change.

But then he noticed the time on his phone and realized that he would have to hurry to make the train that would get him to London at twelve.

So he made some haphazard apology to, uh, Mary, and ran for the station.

 

He actually spotted Sherlock waiting beyond the barricade before the taller boy noticed him and for a moment John was so stunned by what he saw that he stumbled into a suitcase being dragged by a German tourist and almost fell flat on his arse.

The expression on Sherlock’s face was like nothing he’d seen there before. The distinctive features looked wrecked. But an instant later, his grey-green gaze landed on John and his face fell into the more familiar contours of haughty disdain.

They met just beyond the barrier.

“Hi,” John said. “I’ve been wondering about you.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound needy.

Sherlock didn’t respond to his words at all. “Come along,” he said instead. “Things to do.”

And John followed him.

 

‘Things to do’ apparently meant going to some obscure redbrick museum, the name of which John didn’t notice before Sherlock dragged him through the door and into a badly lit gallery.

The dragging wasn’t new. John realised early on that Sherlock made rather a habit of pushing and/or pulling him to where he wanted John to be and then, sometimes, even seemed to manipulate his limbs, posing him as he wished. John wondered if that should bother him more than it did.

The gallery was a claustrophobic collection of glass cases and without missing a beat Sherlock paused in front of the first case.

“Ah, arsenic,” Sherlock said with some enthusiasm. “First synthesized in the 5th century by an Arab chemist, turning it into an odorless, tasteless powder that is easily dissolved in water.”

John nodded. “Interesting.”

After a moment, they moved to the next case.

“You undoubtedly know about Paracelsus, John.”

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Must have been out sick that day.”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and began a detailed lecture on some 16th century German-Swiss physician/alchemist who had pointed out that often only dosage differentiated a poison from a remedy.

John made the proper sounds of amazement and admiration when necessary. Truthfully, though, he was paying even less attention than usual to what Sherlock was actually saying. Rather more surprising was the fact that he was not even paying much attention to Sherlock himself. He had already noted the usual well-cut black the suit and a white shirt open at the neck. He even noticed [thank you, Sherlock, for teaching me to observe] that there was a black tie shoved into one pocket. He had never seen Sherlock wearing a tie.

All he could really think about was what he’d seen on Sherlock’s face at the train station. That shattered, pain-filled expression. More than anything, he wanted to ask him about it, about what was troubling him, because something certainly was.

But he could not bring himself to say anything.

On the third occasion Sherlock had summoned him to London, John had taken the time to go to his former home, wanting to pick up some of his clothing and cds he’d left behind. His father, he’d assumed, would be at work or at the pub. But instead he was in the sitting room, already drunk, and he exploded with rage when he saw John. Accused him of stealing.

Before John could get out, his father had bloodied his nose and split his lip with the Masonic ring on his finger.

Using a hastily grabbed kitchen towel to staunch the blood, John trudged back to the park where Sherlock was waiting. It was clear that Sherlock was curious [well, of course, it was Sherlock] but he didn’t ask a single question. Instead, he just fetched ice from a nearby café and then sat in silence on the bench with John.

So John didn’t feel as if he could really pry now.

Sherlock was still in full flow. “---nightshade, monkshood, Foxglove, Angel’s Trumpet.”

“They have pretty names,” John pointed out. “That’s a bit ironic.”

Sherlock seemed pleased that he was listening.

After nearly two hours of lecturing, though, John felt as if he could demand food. Although he frowned, Sherlock allowed himself to be led into the museum’s small café. John fetched himself a tuna mayo sandwich and lemonade; he picked up tea and a slice of Victoria sponge for Sherlock.

The lecture went on for a bit, about something that was called dimethylmercury, which sounded really very nasty. But finally Sherlock’s words dwindled off. He nibbled a corner of the sponge, but John could tell he was only eating a bit to be polite because John had fetched it for him. Admittedly, politeness was not a common Sherlockian trait, but it did not go unnoticed that he sometimes tried with John.

Sherlock glanced up at him. “Thank you for meeting me today.”

John raised his brows. “I always meet you, Sherlock. Every time you ask.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “You do.” He sounded vaguely surprised.

“Well, that’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have friends.”

John blinked. “Well,” he said softly, then realised he had no idea what to say next.

“I don’t have friends,” Sherlock repeated. “I’ve just got one.”

John pushed away the rest of his sandwich. “Sherlock, what’s the matter?”

Before the other boy could answer, another voice broke in. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed.

John looked up to see a tall young man clad in a three-piece black suit, a furled brolly in one hand, standing by their table. Unlike Sherlock, he was wearing a perfectly knotted tie.

John was beginning to feel out of his depth.

“Hello,” the stranger said. “I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother.”

“Oh. I’m John Watson,” he said belatedly.

“Yes, I know.”

“Go away,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft didn’t look as if he planned on going anywhere soon. “You must come.”

John pushed his chair back and prepared to stand. “I should probably---”

He was stopped by a firm grip on his wrist. “Don’t,” Sherlock said. “Please.”

Sherlock never said please.

Mycroft sighed. “You must come to the funeral, Sherlock.”

John’s mouth was dry. “Funeral?” He looked at Sherlock. “What’s going on?”

It was Mycroft who replied. “Our father died three days ago. The funeral begins in less than an hour.”

“My god.”

Sherlock was still holding onto John’s wrist.

John leaned towards him and spoke softly. “Sherlock, you have to go.”

After a moment, Sherlock raised his eyes and met John’s gaze.

 

And so that was how it happened that amongst all the expensive suits, posh accents, and gleaming limos [even the prime minister was in attendance], there was one mourner who wore blue jeans and a cable knit jumper. He sat next to Sherlock in the chapel, bumping a second cousin to the third row. He rode in the front car with Sherlock, Mycroft, and Mrs. Holmes to the cemetery, and then stood beside Sherlock at the crypt as the body was entombed.

John spoke to no one and no one spoke to him, save Sherlock’s mother, who only said, “Hello.”

When they were back at the house,[which was as huge and fancy as he remembered from his other visit] instead of heading for the buffet table with all the upper crust, Sherlock took him by the wrist again and led him out into the evening. They ended up in the gazebo, sitting on a wicker sofa.

They sat in silence for several minutes, with Sherlock’s fingers still resting on his wrist.

John took a breath. “My father started beating me when I was eight,” he said quietly. “He never hit Harry or my mother, although he yelled at them a lot. Me, he rarely yelled at. Just the hitting.” John had no idea why he was saying this now. “I don’t have friends. I could never have anyone over and if I were gone when he wanted me there the beating would be worse. I don’t really have family either, because Harry and my mum were afraid if they were nice to me….” He looked at Sherlock. “I only have one friend, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes were dark and somehow dangerous looking. “If your father ever hurts you again, I will punish him. Or Mycroft can.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, I will if you ask.”

“Thank you.” John leaned back into the plump cushions. “Why don’t you tell me about your father?” he said.

After a moment, Sherlock rested against John’s shoulder and started to talk.

fini


End file.
